


What We Left Behind

by CrypticNymph



Category: The Hour
Genre: Abortion, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Dancing, F/M, Rape/Non-con References, Spanish Civil War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 10:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrypticNymph/pseuds/CrypticNymph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War is brutal, sharp, but peace aches with the promise of further pain. Stupid angsty theories of Lix and Randall's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> There's so much love for these two, and yet so little fanfiction. That's a travesty. Apologies if the few bits of Spanish in this are wrong.

They first meet in London. Randall’s the most senior of the photographers on the team, whilst Lix is the most junior. She’s been recommended to him by a friend, “a bloody diamond” were the exact words used to describe her. Randall’s natural pessimism makes him inclined to disbelieve this before he’s even met her, so on her first day he’s prepared to encounter a giggling mess of a girl, about to be crushed by the weight of expectation.

He’s wrong.

Lix breezes into the office with the air of a woman who knows she’ll run the place one day. She’s got that feeling of confidence that many in their late twenties possess, but she wears it better than most. It strikes Randall that she does not wear a skirt, choosing slacks instead, before he chides himself for looking in the first place. _Inappropriate_. Privately, he can’t decide which actress she reminds him of more; Marlene Dietrich or Katharine Hepburn. He’ll never make his mind up.

“Mr Brown, I presume?” she asks with a faint smile. Her voice isn’t quite a purr, but it’s got a sensual quality that disarms him. 

“Ms Storm. So good to have you aboard. Let me introduce you to the rest of the team.” He does so, taking her around the office one by one. A few of the men raise their eyebrows at her, noting her youth, and something about that sets Randall’s teeth on edge.

***

It’s a few weeks before they’re off to Spain, but in that time Randall gains little knowledge of the enigmatic Ms Storm. In any case, he’s working, planning, rearranging- there’s simply no time. What little he does know, however, intrigues him. Lix is a social butterfly; everyone in the office loves her. She attracts the attention of the male colleagues but they’re universally rebuked- Lix breaks hearts as well as the news. She doesn’t need to say a word when they attempt to whisper sweet nothings in her ear; instead she raises her eyebrows and gives them a look that’s mocking rather than threatening, and all the more effective for being so. 

Still, interaction for her is effortless, not something it has ever been for Randall. The team does not regard him favourably, this he knows. He’s either admonishing them or awkwardly attempting to befriend them, which is difficult when you have garnered a reputation for constantly rearranging the office and skulking around where you’re not wanted. Perhaps that’s why he regards her with so much suspicion, however appealing he finds that sultry, cut glass voice.

There’s only one instance back in Britain where Lix interacts with him outside of the professional. It’s the night before they’re due to depart, for however long the civil war in Spain rages, and he’s busy double checking and triple checking that everything is organised. That’s another reason why Randall’s colleagues dislike him- nothing is ever left to chance. It’s late at night so he’s working in semi darkness, the light of his desk lamp not quite bright enough to prevent him from straining his eyes. He’s checking his list over for the fourth or fifth time (he can’t remember which) when he notices Lix watching him from the doorway. 

Taken aback, he raises his eyebrows at her. “Can I help you, Ms Storm?”

She smiles at him, just a little. “I think you can call me Lix, Mr Brown. I’m junior to you, after all.”

Randall swallows and straightens his tie. “If that’s what you would prefer, then by all means. May I ask why you’re still here at this late hour?”

She lights a cigarette as she walks towards his desk. “I won’t sleep tonight, and I got sick of drinking with the others.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Is this the same woman who I heard not three days ago proclaiming her love for all things alcoholic?”

Lix laughs, before taking a drag of her cigarette. “Yes, well, something was missing.”

He can’t quite interpret the look she’s giving him, whether it’s mocking or flirting or something else entirely. He tries to look down at his list again, but is preoccupied with the feeling that she’s observing him, marking his every movement. Strangely, unfathomably, he cares what she thinks of him. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Yes, isn’t it? So I decided to bring my drinking here instead.” She pulls a bottle of whisky from her bag and shakes it a little in his direction.

“I shouldn’t…”

“Not a drinker?”

“Quite the opposite.”

“Ah. I won’t tell if you don’t, Randall.”

To hear Lix use his first name is somehow… electrifying. She takes out two glasses that she fills with whisky, and as he takes his drink from her, their hands briefly touch. “You know,” he began, “it could be considered inappropriate to call your boss by his given name.”

“It could be considered inappropriate to be caught drinking at your desk with a younger female colleague, but I’ll keep that under my hat.”

Randall laughs, for the first time in a while. He raises his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” The whisky’s cold but it burns his throat. He wonders if she knows how much this means to him. He doesn’t know himself.

***

They’re stationed in Seville with the Nationalists by the BBC- everyone knows the party line of national non-intervention is bullshit, that a fascist victory is more preferable to the government than a communist one- and there are few moments in which they can catch their breath. Even in Seville, which is securely under Franco’s control, there are things to photograph.

In the early days, it’s too shocking to comprehend. The mass shootings, rows upon rows of Republicans, are somehow even more repellent through the lens of a camera. They lose their clarity, and are in this way all the more disturbing. Randall starts drinking again in order to face the day. It’s all he can do not to burn the photos. The lurid bodies of the dead are ingrained on his retinas. He can’t sleep at night. 

The strain on the rest of the team is evident. One fairly young man is forced to leave prematurely. Randall has concerns for his mental health. He’s heard him crying at night, great shuddering sobs of pain and revulsion. 

Lix copes, in a sense. She drinks too, but somehow knows when to stop, unlike him. They begin to find solace in each other. There are times when the war gets too much to bear, and he finds himself knocking on her door, unshaven and unkempt with red rimmed eyes. She’ll pretend not to notice and invite him inside for a chat, more often than not staying the night on her sofa bed. The others think they’re sleeping together, that he favours Lix because of this. Gossip becomes so much more valuable in a war, where secrecy is paramount, and our true motivations must remain undeclared.

Gradually, the atrocities become rarer. As the war rages onward and Franco gains more support, Seville becomes more peaceful, if that’s possible in a warzone. There are fewer killings, or at least, there are fewer bodies to be found. Randall finds he doesn’t have to drink as much to get by, and eventually doesn’t even have to drink every day. He wishes it was because the war is nearly over, but it isn’t. His acclimatisation to violence disturbs him.

***

There’s a rare moment of levity one evening in a Spanish bar. There’s been little to report recently, which is always good news. The team decide to go out dancing, and Randall’s reluctant to join them, before Lix shoots him a smile he hasn’t seen in months and he feels that familiar shiver of arousal. The bar’s crawling with Nationalist soldiers, all ready for an evening of excess. They’re seated in a corner, seven or eight of them all squashed around a small table. He can feel the heat radiating from Lix beside him, her side pressed against him, and he’s not sure what to do with his hands.

Lix makes a toast. “To little moments of pleasure,” she sighs, “in a world that’s so very dark.”

They’re not happy. Not yet. Give them a little time to get drunk, and forget that outside this sweaty, cramped dance hall there are men, women and children being murdered. It’s easy to judge, but they’ve no idea what’s to come. Randall drinks faster than anyone else, gripping his glass so tightly he’s close to crushing it in his fist.

One by one, the journalists slope off to the dance floor, some with each other and others with attractive locals. Eventually, Lix and Randall are the only ones left. Randall makes no attempt at moving from her side, his propriety all but vanished, more concerned with the pale white skin of her neck.

After a while, Lix speaks. “Fancy a dance?”

“I can’t,” he mumbles, “two left feet.”

“Nonsense. Either you’re dancing with me or I’m finding a handsome Spaniard to accompany me.”

Randall hesitates. She knows he gets jealous, then, in spite of himself. “C’mon then.”

She stubs out her cigarette and drags him onto the dance floor by the hand. It’s hot and hazy being surrounded by so many people, but all he can concentrate on is how it feels to hold Lix. He’s being inappropriate again, he knows, standing closer to her than he ought to.

Lix moves her mouth to his ear. “You know, you’re not so bad at dancing, really.”

The feeling of her breath against his neck makes him flush. “You’re very kind.”

“I’m really not. You’re just a bit stiff in the back. You need to loosen up.”

“I’m not sure I know how.” Randall hears his voice crack. Lix draws him closer. He can feel her body pressed against his. 

“I worry about you.” Her voice is softer than he’s ever heard it. “I’m not losing you to a bloody war.”

“You won’t. No army could match Lix Storm.”

She laughs. “You’re adorable sometimes, Mr Brown.” 

“What happened to Randall?” The song behind them is changing; it’s slower. He barely notices. 

“Wouldn’t Randall be inappropriate?” 

He can’t look her in the eye because he’s afraid that she’s mocking him, telling him this is all just another bloody game gotten out of hand. That’s how wars start. Eventually, he speaks. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” 

She grips him more tightly. “I feel like I’m taking you out of your comfort zone.”

“Ms Storm,” he says, shocked at how ragged his voice has become from drink and arousal, “I’ve been out of my comfort zone ever since I met you.”

He is certain she will push him away, so is surprised by the response his words elicit. He could have sworn he felt her tremble, if that weren’t a terribly un-Lix thing to do. She meets his gaze, eyes burning. “You know, I’m rather sick of this bar. I think we should get out of here.” 

Randall swallows hard, feeling his heartbeat in his head. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all month.”

Again she takes his hand and leads him away, back towards the exit. “My ideas are always brilliant.”

“Not always.” He’s jostling through the crowd, being sworn at for his intrusion, but he doesn’t care. “You’re reckless.”

“How so?”

“You care more about the bloody shot than you do about your own safety.” They’re collecting their coats, and he swears he’s never moved so fast in his life. 

“That’s why you like me, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I think it is.” He opens the door into the cool night air. It’s raining a little, but he doesn’t notice, his body’s on fire. His apartment is less than ten minutes away, but it’s too far. Randall can feel himself shaking, just a little. Still, he’s half walking half running down the road in desperation, cutting into an alley way to shorten his route, because this moment can’t come soon enough. Lix is still holding his hand, and she’s laughing at him.

They turn a corner, and Randall’s joy is overshadowed. Nationalist soldiers are patrolling, guns slung over one shoulder. He skids in the dirt as he stops himself, pulling Lix back. 

“Best to avoid them,” he says, watching the troops march past from the darkness of the alley. Once they’ve passed, he looks back at Lix. She’s flustered, her hair out of place, and he can feel the warmth of her bare skin through the hand gripping her shoulder. For the life of him, Randall doesn’t know why he’s never done this before.

Before he can stop himself, Randall’s backed Lix up against the wall of the alley, cradling her face in his hands and kissing her hard. The way she clutches at his shirt and pulls him closer makes him moan into her mouth. He can taste whisky on her lips, and cigarette smoke. He’s never wanted someone this desperately, but then again, what man in his right mind wouldn’t feel this way about Lix Storm?

She pushes him back. “Randall,” she pants, in a way that really should not have been so appealing, “if you carry on like this, we’ll never make it back to yours.”

Grinning, he takes her hand again, and this time he’s definitely running. She’s running too, through the deserted backstreets of Seville, through the haze of the rain. Randall fiddles with his keys in trembling hands, but eventually they’re inside, and he’s barely even closed the door before she’s pulling him by the tie into his bedroom.

***

Randall wakes first, the morning after, and for a while he forgets what’s happened. He’s surprised to find Lix lying with her back to him in this dank, dingy little room, but infinitely pleased. Kissing her neck to wake her is tempting, but he knows she finds it hard enough to sleep as it is. Glancing around, Randall notices the clothes they tore asunder, the shards of glass from the ashtray they knocked aside. It’s a mess.

He dresses and starts to clean up. The glass is dealt with quickly, but the scent of Lix’s perfume lingers on her clothes, distractingly so. Eventually he enters the kitchen and starts to make tea. 

Randall’s fetching cups when he feels Lix wrap her arms around his torso, something he’ll never tire of. “That damn kettle woke me.”

“You snuck up on me.”

“I know. Come back to bed.”

“I’m already dressed.”

“I know. Come back to bed.”

“We should be working soon.”

“I know. Come back to bed.”

In the end, Randall goes back to bed. 

***

Wars never end, they stop to breathe. And in that spirit, Randall loves Lix. His life is divided into time spent with her and time spent without her. War is brutal, sharp, but peace aches with the promise of further pain. They spend months and months together, in his apartment or hers, never really wanting to venture back outside into a world that’s cruel and vicious and hurts so much. 

Randall captures it in his photographs- it annoys the hell out of her that he’s always got a camera in her hands when she’s got no makeup on, but Lix lets him take the photos anyway. He keeps them all. One time, when Randall is very drunk, he tells her that she’s better than Marlene Dietrich and Katharine Hepburn put together. Lix tells him he’s an idiot. 

***

“Why?” Randall murmurs into her neck one night, _the_ night, tracing the curve of her spine with his fingertips.

He can’t see her face, her back is turned, but he knows Lix is smiling. “Why are you so surprised?”

“Because I don’t deserve you.”

She chuckles. “Well, perhaps one day I’ll come to my senses, but for now I’m stuck with you.”

Randall smiles. “You know that I love you, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Of course she does. Lix knows him more intimately than any other person in this mess of a world. “I love you too.”

Randall takes a ring from his pocket. It’s not much- he’s not paid enough for what he does, none of them are- but Lix has never been one for flashy gestures. The plain gold band is heavy in his hand.

“Then will you marry me?”

She’s taken aback, Randall can feel it in the way she tenses up, even if he can’t see her face. “We might die in this war.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it.”

Lix turns, and he’s scared, because she’s crying. “I can’t think about that here. I can’t.”

Randall freezes, feeling the urge to fiddle with the stack of papers on the desk beside him, but he resists. “I hate it when you cry.”

Lix takes the ring and holds it tightly in her first, before embracing him. “I swear I’ll answer you, but I can’t do it now.”

Maybe if Randall doesn’t cave, doesn’t let her take him to bed, he’ll save himself the pain. But that is not what he does. He lets Lix Storm undo him, as she’s done countless times before.

***

They’re transferred in the beginning of ‘39, moved closer to the action. They’re staying with the troops surrounding Madrid, which is as good as doomed to fascism. Franco’s long since won but the Republicans still cling to their capital. Inside the city’s walls, the people starve. Randall’s horrified, and starts drinking a lot more. Lix stops drinking whisky completely. This is how he knows she’s falling apart.

The war is back, and it’s more brutal than ever. Now Lix bears the brunt of the travesties, whilst Randall is her comforter. He becomes almost reverent in his treatment of her, which Lix dislikes, missing the way he used to tease her. Randall can’t help it. He can’t bring himself to mock her when she clings to him in bed at night, like if she lets go she’ll be somehow taken away.

It’s lucky for them that the city falls soon; otherwise Lix might not have survived. Spring’s beginning in Madrid but it feels like winter. As the city falls, they capture it, not because they want to but because they have to. Otherwise, who will remember that it happened? 

The fighting continues into the evening, and the group becomes separated. Randall’s running down a ransacked street, talking in bad Spanish to terrified locals, who plead with him to protect them. He can’t. To do so would be suicide. Gunshots fade to nothing because he’s screaming inside his head, tearing through the side streets and all the while taking photographs. 

That night, he finds Lix, in the midst of the most vicious fighting. She’s steadying a young woman, bleeding heavily from her abdomen. Randall calls her name, but the sound is lost in the gunfire. Sheltered by the Nationalist troops, he’s able to reach them just as the woman collapses in the entrance to an alley.

Lix pulls her jacket from her shoulders and rips it, wrapping it around the woman’s abdomen. _“¿Cómo te llamas?_ ”

“Antonia,” she manages, gasping and shaking.

“What happened?” Randall asks. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Lix lies, “she was attacked. I don’t think you should be here.”

He glances at Antonia, and she looks back at him in fear. Suddenly, he understands what has happened to her. “Oh.”

“Is that all you can manage, Randall?” Lix spits. “For God’s sake.”

“I want to help,” he protests.

“You _can’t_. Get out of here, get somewhere safe.”

“You think I’m going to leave you here?” Randall growls, and Antonia flinches. 

Lix glares. “Can’t you see you’re making things worse?”

He clenches his jaw. “I won’t leave you.”

Antonia’s shuddering, and becoming drowsy. Lix relents. “Fine. Cover us, help us get to the back line.” 

Randall stands between them and the fighting, yelling “ _La prensa!_ ” at the soldiers, whilst Lix half carries Antonia towards a medic. Her legs collapse from underneath her fifty yards from the medic, so Randall picks her up, feeling the life beginning to leave her.

“Please help her,” Lix begs a Nationalist medic, “she’s hurt.” The man nods and takes Antonia from Randall’s arms. Neither of them see what happens to her after that. They don’t want to have their fears confirmed.

***

By April, the war is over, and so is what they shared. In the end, Randall was too big a reminder of the war for her to keep. The team is sent back to Britain, all broken, all bitter, and deep down Randall knows that she’s going to leave him soon.

It takes a few weeks for them to fall apart completely. Enough time to give Randall hope. In the end, it’s worse this way. 

“I’m pregnant,” Lix says flatly, without joy, without malice. Somehow her words still ring out in the quiet darkness of Randall’s flat.

“Oh.” There’s a long silence again, where neither of them wants to speak. “Are you certain?” he manages eventually, his voice hoarse.

“Yes.” She’s not looking at him, instead stubbing out her cigarette in his ashtray. “I don’t want kids.”

“I know.” He wants to protest, wants to plead with Lix to keep it and stay, but he’s got no right.

“I’m going to abort it.”

Randall exhales shakily and starts to mess with the paper clips on his desk. 

“For God’s sake Randall, aren’t you even listening to me?”

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” He’s not bothering to hide the hurt. “Don’t make me look you in the eye whilst you do this.”

Lix moves closer to him. “You honestly think we’d make good parents?”

“I don’t know.” He continues to mess with the paperclips. “I wanted everything with you.”

Randall looks at her, and sees that she’s crying. “I’m not the same person I was in Seville. I left her behind, in the war.”

“You’re telling me I lost you to a war?”

Even now he notes how remarkably beautiful she looks, despite the tears streaking her makeup. “What can I say? Franco defeated me as he defeated the rest.”

He doesn’t speak, so Lix continues. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be trapped.”

Randall’s throat stings. “You came to your senses, then.”

She’s angry, and that’s how he’ll remember her, late at night for years to come. “Don’t you dare think this isn’t hard for me, Randall. Don’t you bloody dare.”

“Why,” he begins, voice wavering, “are you so afraid of needing me?”

Lix doesn’t answer. She leaves. 

Randall takes out a box of photographs. In some she’s giving him that small smile he saw on her first day of work, confident and sexy and proud. In others she’s pretending to glare, furrowing her eyebrows. More often than not she’s giving him that look that’s mocking rather than threatening, not realising how it undoes him. His favourites are the ones where she doesn’t know he’s taking them, where she’s looking out of a window or writing up a report. Her face is rested, natural.

After a while, Randall pours a drink of whisky and knocks it back in one. He grips his glass so tightly he’s close to crushing it in his fist.


End file.
